


Unintentional Switching

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: HaiKise Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:28:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Didn’t know you wanted to get in my pants that much though, but you do look pretty hot.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unintentional Switching

**Author's Note:**

> haikise week day 1: swap! (they swap clothes)

Shougo’s half-asleep when he pulls a shirt off the floor and gets it on, just so he doesn’t spill toothpaste on his bare chest. When he’s shaving his face in the mirror, he notices for a second that it’s Ryouta’s and considers taking it off (and that explained why it had smelled so much like Ryouta’s cologne, not that it swayed Shougo’s decision to put it on other than the fact that it didn’t smell like sweat).

But it’s cooled off some; the humidity’s finally gone down and there’s no reason not to wear a shirt in the house even if he’s not planning on leaving. Ryouta’s already gone, though; he has Saturday talk shows and other famous-people shit and he’d mentioned something about playing basketball with his friends later (he forgets which friends, but they’re some of the ones he doesn’t like, and yeah that’s pretty much all of them but the point still stands). And there’s ice cream in the freezer (Ryouta’s diets are stupid but at least it means Shougo gets most of the desserts to himself) and Ryouta’s not around to yell at him for putting his feet up on the table (and calling them gross just because Shougo doesn’t get paid to get a professional pedicure every week like him) and he doesn’t have to go back to work until Monday. It’s going to be a good day.

He grabs a can of beer from the fridge when he’s in the kitchen to get the ice cream, and settles down on the couch, deliberately kicking his feet up and sweeping Ryouta’s piles of old fashion magazines onto the floor. The TV is a big LCD flat screen; Ryouta had gotten it for free after doing a series of commercials for an electronics company and it’s pretty damn nice even to be able to watch sports and talk shows and old DVDs in high definition. Shougo flips through the channels, passing soccer recaps and infomercials and shrieking children’s cartoons, overenthusiastic news anchors and game shows and old movies, skips past another talk show and wait a minute.

There’s Ryouta himself, clearly all dolled up in way too much makeup, sitting next to the host, who’s in similar pancake-face and looks way too young to be out of high school, much less having such a high-profile gig. He looks like he’s hanging on Ryouta’s every word which, ew. Ryouta’s ego is already so big the city of Tokyo can barely contain it; he doesn’t need any help from simpering television personalities like this kid. Shougo scoops out a large chunk of ice cream with his spoon and shoves it in his mouth; the cold sinks into his teeth and Ryouta continues to blather on.

It's not like Shougo’s watching because he wants to see Ryouta do this shit, or because he’s so obsessed with his own boyfriend that he has to watch it. It’s good fuel for teasing him later, as weird as it is to see Ryouta all dolled up and polite (this person is nothing like his Ryouta; he speaks with Ryouta’s voice but he’s like some kind of alien almost; it’s like seeing him airbrushed on a billboard where he has no pores and they’ve made the spark in his eyes vanish and he looks so vapid and yeah, Ryouta’s dumb, but he can be pretty fucking observant and he’s not some robot).

“So, Kise-kun,” says the host. “I’ve been meaning to ask about your pants.”

“My pants?”

The camera zooms out to a wide shot and Ryouta stands up, managing to sashay for all of two steps and then wiggle his ass. The audience, predictably, begins to squeal and hoot and scream. Shougo rolls his eyes. And then he takes a second look at Ryouta’s pants and almost spits out the sip of beer in his mouth.

Those are Shougo’s old jeans, light blue wash worn almost white and a stain on one knee from the summer he’d painted houses and Shougo can’t believe he’s wearing them with that designer t-shirt worth more than three of his paychecks (well, actually he can because for a model Ryouta has shitty fashion sense).

“What about my pants?”

This had better not be a lead-up to some even-more-blatant innuendo.

“Where did you get them? What brand are they? I don’t think I’ve seen any like that before.”

“Yeah, asshole,” says Shougo. “That’s because you’ve never seen a pair of jeans that’s been worn more than twice.”

Ryouta shrugs. “They’re very old; they’re unique. They were a gift.”

Funny, Shougo doesn’t remember giving them away.

“I love the paint stain. It looks so real!”

Ryouta laughs, throwing back his head like the fucking faker he is.

* * *

Shougo’s still in the house, still wearing only Ryouta’s t-shirt over his underwear, when Ryouta gets home. He’s still wearing the pants (and that stupid designer shirt), and Shougo follows him into the kitchen and watches him drink half a bottle of mineral water before Ryouta actually gets the hint and starts talking.

“Something to say, Shougo-kun?”

“Yeah, actually. I don’t remember giving you those pants.”

“Well, well, Mr. I-don’t-watch-your-TV-appearances, I thought you didn’t care?”

“I was channel surfing and everything else was on commercial break.”

Ryouta snorts and takes another sip of water.

“Didn’t know you wanted to get in my pants that much though, but you do look pretty hot,” says Shougo.

Ryouta snorts again. “You’re wearing my shirt; I wish I could say the same.”

“You know you love it,” says Shougo.

“Well,” says Ryouta. “It is pretty cute that you’d want to wear something that reminds you of me.”

“Don’t get so full of yourself. I picked it because it was clean.”

“Sure,” says Ryouta.

His lips are centimeters from Shougo’s but he’s not closing the gap, and Shougo’s not a patient man. He smashes their mouths together; Ryouta smirks against him and really? Really?

“Why do I have to do all the work?” Shougo murmurs.

“Because you’re cute when you’re trying,” says Ryouta.

Shougo’s not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult or what, so he kisses Ryouta harder and leaves it at that.


End file.
